


Good and Bad Alike (We Keep Meeting)

by sevendeadlyfun



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendeadlyfun/pseuds/sevendeadlyfun
Summary: He does not meet her at Versailles. No one, the Duc D’Orlean proclaims, meets anyone at Versailles.Angelica and Jefferson meet in Paris. They part in America.





	Good and Bad Alike (We Keep Meeting)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiraMira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/gifts).



He does not meet her at Versailles. No one, the Duc D’Orlean proclaims, meets anyone at Versailles. Versailles is a place to be seen, not to see. They meet at a gala in Paris, an ordinary evening of the bourgeois. Their host is a Monsieur Savard, an anxious man attempting to court favor and custom in his pursuit of a noble title.

He needn’t have worked so hard. Those titles are for sale, Jefferson knows, at bargain prices. One can purchase a name stretching back to the ancien régime for 5 centimes in the right quarter of the city. Still, who cares for facts in the face of the frantic luxury of Parisian social climbing?

The brilliance of the ballroom, its candelabras illuminating the jewel tones of the elegant dresses and waistcoats, is near blinding after the pitch darkness of a Paris evening. The press of bodies sways the entire room, dancers’ shadows spinning across the walls in time with the swell of the music. A hand on his elbow draws his attention from the dizzying display.

“Monsieur l'Ambassadeur,” says a familiar voice. “I did not think to see you this evening, and yet I cannot imagine a more welcome sight.”

“Madame Cosway,” he replies, sketching a slight bow. “The promise of your loveliness drove me from my solitude – where else could I go but straight to your side?”

 She smiles up at him, tangling their fingers together in the folds of her gown. “My husband declined to accompany me this evening, so I am traveling with a dear pair of friends. Could I persuade you to make their acquaintance?”

“Friends of yours, Madame,” he says, holding out his arm to her,” are friends of mine.”

He doesn’t expect the whirl of skirts and bright eyes that greet him across the ballroom. Maria introduces them – a flurry of politesse that draws forth a peal of laughter from his new acquaintance.

“Angelica Schuyler Church,” she says, as he brings her hand to his lips. “I confess I am indebted to Mrs. Cosway for bringing you to me. I have so longed to make your acquaintance.”

 “Indeed?” he replies. “I am honored to be able to fulfill the longing of such a charming woman.”

“Are you?” she says, eyebrow arched. “That is good to hear. So you will not mind fulfilling another of my dearest wishes, then?”

 “Name it, and if it is within my power, I will have it done.”

She laughs again, a musical sound that rises above the serenading strings. “Careful, Mr. Jefferson – I am quite a demanding friend.”

“Is there a better kind?” he asks, twisting his lips. “If an acquaintance does not make at least three impertinent demands of me in the first hour, I feel quite forlorn.”

 “In that case,” she says, linking her arm through his, “let’s take a turn around the room while I lift your spirits with my impertinent demands.”

 

***

 

“You will wait here, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur,” says the man, bowing stiffly from the waist. “Madame Church will join you shortly.”

Jefferson turns, nodding as the man exits the room. The salon is ornately decorated with the heavy swirls and dark colors that are rapidly passing out of fashion in Paris. A display of books, scattered across the marble tabletop, catches his eye and he opens the slim volume at the top of the stack.

_Joy, thou goddess, fair, immortal,_

_Offspring of Elysium,_

_Mad with rapture, to the portal_

_Of thy holy fame we come!_

“Thomas,” he hears from behind him, “if you wanted to borrow a book, you could have simply sent a note.”

“But then I wouldn’t have had the opportunity of seeing your beautiful self,” he replies, letting the book fall closed.

 Her hand closes gently around the swell of his bicep and he turns, smiling. Catching her hand in his own, he brings it to his lips.

“Madame Church,” he says, drawing the words out. “I am greatly honored by your presence.”

She snatches her hand away with a huff. “It’s ridiculous, I know. This whole house is ridiculous – over-decorated, over-gilded, over-formal. John chose it before I arrived and it seemed equally ridiculous to move, simply to spare myself an unfashionable residence and pretentious staff.”

She sits on a tufted settee and looks up at him. “Well, if you aren’t here to paw through my small library, then there must be something else.”

He takes the seat opposite her. “There is – Paris is beginning to bore me. After almost five years, the shine has dulled and I find I miss the pleasures of home.”

She smiles. “I understand. Paris is old and the work of America is new. The letters I receive from Alexander, Eliza, even General Washington, are all filled with nothing but talk of the new government – in fact, as you are so pleased to rifle through my books, I will present you with a copy of one I have enjoyed above all others.”

The book she reaches for is slim, scarcely the width of her two fingers together, the spine a rich brown with golden letters picked out in gilt.

“The Federalist,” he says, eyes scanning the cover. “A Collection of Essays Written in Favor of the New Constitution, as Agreed upon by the Federal Convention, September 17, 1787.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “A weighty tome for a such a lovely mind.”

Angelica’s eyes darken, though her smile doesn’t shift. “My dearest brother Alexander sent it to me, to keep me up to date on the happenings at home. He tells me it is the work of himself, Mr. Jay, and Mr. Madison, though he does not say which essay is by his hand and which was the work of the others.”

Jefferson puts the book to one side. “I wonder that Mr. Church is much taken with your political agitating – the tender hearts of women aren’t made for such battles.”

“Mr. Church is far too busy to keep such a grasp on the workings of my heart,” Angelica returns, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “As I would imagine you to be, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur. Didn’t you say you were ready to return home?”

"I am,” he agrees, rising from his seat. “It is long past time I was away. “

He inclines his head gravely. “My thanks for the loan of the book. I look forward to unraveling its mysteries.” 

He watches as she leaves the room, the flow of fabric down her back weaving a sinuous trail across the polished marble floor.

“Mr. Jefferson,” she says, pausing in the doorway without looking back. “Please make sure you return my book before you go. It was a gift and one I should hate to lose through carelessness.”

“Mine are the most careful of hands,” he responds, but she is already through the door, leaving his words to echo down the drafty hallway behind her.

 

***

 

“You didn’t do enough,” she says, fixing her eyes on the altar. “Although, having seen the fruits of your labor, I’m inclined to think that might be a blessing.”

Her words echo across the vast emptiness of the silent cathedral.

“So,” he replies, taking a seat beside her on the pew, “I am condemned from all sides then – hanged for action and inaction alike?”

“When I wrote to you, to ask for your help, I had just come from the bedside of the comtesse De Broigne,” Angelica says. “She traveled for days with no water. Her hands were covered in these tiny, festering sores  –  I couldn’t figure out how she had cut her hands so badly. Her husband and son were gone, likely murdered, but all I could see were her hands.”

“She had lovely hands,” Jefferson says. “I remember thinking that when we partnered for the waltz.”

She ignores that. It isn’t true but if she focuses on every lie he tells, she’ll drown.

“Her husband and son stayed behind to hold them off. They had no warning, she told me.”

The soft snort next to her stops the flow of her words.

“They had every warning,” he says. “The King beheaded, the Queen imprisoned – did they think the sans culottes would tire of their revolution? Did we tire of ours?”

“Did we drag General Burgoyne into the Commons to lop off his head?”

“It would be better than the country were left with only a single man and a single woman then to be consigned to the slavery of monarchy,” he answers, voice soft.

“You speak to me of slaves,” she says, closing her eyes, “when I have seen with my own eyes how your life is made easy and your bed kept comfortable?”

“I am sorry for your loss,” he continues, as if she had not spoken. “For your sister and for our nation – he was truly a singular character.”

She does respond. What could she say? Jefferson creates a world of his own opinion and peoples it with shadows, reflections of reality that have neither form nor substance.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. President,” she says at last. “I know Eliza and the children will be honored to hear how much you cared for Alexander.”

He smiles down at her, patting her hand before rising. “And I will do what I properly can for your émigrés. Truly, I mourn the means as much as I pray for the justified end of oppression.”

She does not watch him walk back down the aisle of the cathedral. She does not say good-bye. She sits, watching the flicker of candles around the coffin, and listens as the click, click, click of his walking stick recedes into the distance.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Jefferson reads is Frederich Schiller's "Ode to Joy", published in 1786. Much of Jefferson's dialogue was based on letters he wrote to Angelica and others, particularly his feelings on the French Revolution. He was super not sad to see an entire country fall if it meant the few left at the end would be "free" or, at least, his version of that word. 
> 
> My apologies to MiraMira - this is my first attempt in this fandom and likely more historical than Miranda. I hope you enjoy it anyway.


End file.
